


try to sweep the darkness out

by mandalorianed



Series: chiaroscuro [4]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Bat Family, Canon Jewish Character, Family Bonding, Gen, Holidays, Jewish Holidays, also non-canon jewish characters because no one can stop me and all your faves are jewish now, mild family dysfunction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 17:46:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9335678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandalorianed/pseuds/mandalorianed
Summary: The holiday season is a fraught proposition for any family, but doubly so for one made up almost entirely of vigilantes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays! This is…. aggressively late, but I did my best. Chronologically, this takes place after [_in this twilight_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7975048), but within the same year, so Damian’s 13. As always, the fics are arranged chronologically [here](http://archiveofourown.org/series/560117).
> 
> Title is taken from [this poem](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/50031).

“This,” Jason says solemnly, a lit cigarette dangling between two forefingers, “Is some grade A bullshit.”

It’s late evening, around 9 PM, but still early by Damian’s internal clock. Jason won’t be out on patrol for at least another hour, which is why he’s perched on Jason’s fire escape, talking to the other vigilante through his bedroom window. Jason’s still fully inside, due to the gentle snowfall that’s leaving gray-white snowflakes drifting on Damian’s cape. Somehow, probably due to Gotham’s persistent pollution problem, the snow seems dirty even before it hits the filthy streets.

“I’m just letting you know,” he says, irritably brushing some snow off his shoulder and then frowning at the wet smear it leaves on his glove. “Now we’re even.”

Jason scoffs, the sound accompanied by a gust of cigarette smoke.

“Look, kid, dropping by and being like, ‘You’re about to be guilted into an awkward Christmas dinner’ is not the same as me hauling your unconscious ass out of the river.”

Damian’s frown deepens.

“I’ll keep that in mind next time I consider doing you a favor, Todd.”

Jason takes a long pull from the cigarette instead of answering, and Damian shifts a little bit, the fire escape creaking under his weight. It’s below freezing outside, and even his best fur lined boots aren’t doing much to keep out the chill. It doesn’t seem to bother Jason, though, who’s standing in front of the open window in a lightweight Henley and a pair of sweatpants.

“Did Alf mention how many other people he’s planning on dragging into this shitshow,” he asks finally.

Damian shrugs.

“Everyone, I suspect.”

Jason nods absently, starring at a point just to the left of Damian’s head as he thinks. To distract himself from his cramping legs, Damian examines Jason’s bedroom. It’s very clean, certainly cleaner than Drake’s apartment, or Brown’s. There’s a pile of books on the nightstand, mostly heavy looking hardcovers, and the desk off to the side is covered with weapons and body armor. And, of course, lying on top of the bedspread is a german shepard with its big black and brown head pillowed on its paws as it watches Jason with soft, dark eyes. Almost as if in response to Damian’s attention, it lets out a low huff of a bark and jumps down with a clack of claws, walking towards the window with its tail whipping back and forth. Jason starts slightly, and looks down and then immediately back up at Damian.

“Anyway, come inside. You’re letting the snow in.”

Instead, Damian stands and shakes the snow off his hood.

“No, I’m supposed to be sweeping downtown.”

Jason, caught in the middle of leaning down to ruffle his dog’s ears, looks back up at Damian with a frown. Then he shrugs, fumbles in his pocket for a moment, and then pulls out his pack of cigarettes and offers an unlit one to him.

“It’s cold out there,” he says by way of explanation.

Damian takes the cigarette wordlessly, but offers Jason a faint nod before he pulls his grappling gun off his belt and launches himself off the fire escape.

 

***

 

He runs into Cassandra within fifteen minutes of leaving crime alley, although perhaps “run into” isn’t quite the right phrase. He’d been swinging between buildings on Wells Street when he’d suddenly had a shadow, lithe and quiet, and when he’d landed, Cassandra had landed beside him with barely a crunch of ice to betray her presence. She hooks a clawed finger into the dark balaclava she’s wearing and pulls it down so that he can see the bottom of her face and the small smile she’s wearing.

“Merry Christmas,” she says.

“Not yet. It’s not even ten.”

“Christmas eve, then.”

He grunts in reply, and then they’re both interrupted by Oracle’s voice in their ears, directing them to a liquor store robbery. Batgirl joins them on the way, and between the three of them it’s a quick fight.

“Who robs a liquor store on Christmas Eve,” Brown grumbles when they’re done.

It’s muffled slightly since the bottom of her face is still covered, and she’s chaffing at her arms as they settle themselves on the edge of a roof across the street to keep an eye on things until the police show up.

“Thieves,” Cassandra says.

Brown rolls her eyes. “Thanks, Cassie.”

It’s an inane thing to talk about, and Damian is about to point this out when Cassandra speaks again instead.

“Are you coming?” She asks, looking over at Brown. “Tomorrow?”

Now Brown isn’t meeting her eyes, her wrist computer apparently having suddenly become completely enthralling.

“I dunno, Cassie.”

“You should,” Cassandra says, nodding slowly. “It is not good to be alone on Christmas.”

“I’d just be alone for the evening,” she says quickly. “Mom and I are having a big Christmas lunch before she has to go in for the night shift.”

“Still.”

There’s silence for a moment, broken only by the squeal of a distant siren and the sound of Brown fiddling with her gauntlet nervously.

“It’d be weird,” she says, finally. “Right, Dami? It’d be weird.”

“No weirder than Todd being there.”

Now he has both of the girls’ eyes on him.

“Jason’s coming?” Brown asks, faintly incredulously. “He actually said yes?”

Damian shrugs.

“He will.”

Cassandra lets out a quiet huff of laughter, and then says, “Alfred.”

Brown laughs too.

“That makes sense. I guess the old man is tired of fooling around. It’s hard to say no when he’s standing right in front of you, looking all… British. And disappointed.”

“Exactly,” Cassandra says. “So you should come.”

A groan.

“Cassie.”

The argument having now circled back to where it began, Damian turns his attention back to the street. The two trussed up thieves are still lying on the sidewalk outside the store, and he can see the store owner through the window. He’s pacing, jittery, with a phone pressed up to his ear, and he’s continually glancing out at the men on the sidewalk. It isn’t much of a way for the man to be spending Christmas Eve, Damian thinks dispassionately. Not to mention it’s cold, cold enough that he wishes the GCPD would hurry up so that they could start moving again. Instead, he pulls Jason’s gift cigarette out of a pouch on his belt and lights it. The smoke is warm in his chest, but he only gets to take a single drag before Cassandra plucks it out of his hand. He half expects her to stub it out, but instead she takes a drag herself.

“Bad for you,” she says with a faint smile. “Should not get in the habit.”

He doesn’t dignify that with a response, instead taking the cigarette back from her.

“You’re both disgusting,” Brown says. “And the smoke smells awful. It’s bad enough that Jason’s, like, entire existence smells like it without the two of you smelling like it too.”

Cassandra shrugs and, when Damian offers it to her, takes another drag.

“It is cold,” she finally says.

“You’re ridiculous,” Brown says, and is then cut off from any further criticism by the appearance of a GCPD squad car down below. “Ok, now let’s get out of here. I’m freezing.”

 

***

 

Cassandra and Brown had split off from him after the liquor store to sweep the north side of the city, leaving the waterfront to him. It’s even colder down by the water than it is in the rest of the city, and it leaves Damian chafing absentmindedly at his arms as he looks out across the water. The river is reflecting the city lights in a rippling mosaic of white and pale yellow, and, for once, the docks are completely silent. He’d checked all the usual hotspots, the shipping containers where the Black Mask’s gang usually stores their shipments and the Gotham Port Authority building that’s been burned down so many times by rival gangs that it’s one of Gotham’s few municipal buildings that looks almost new, but apparently Gotham’s more professional criminal element has decided to take the night off. Then, there are steps on the roof behind him, and he stiffens until he recognizes them, only to start slightly when Richard slings an arm around his shoulders.

“Hey, lil’ D,” he says, as usual ignoring the irritated sound Damian makes at the arm and the nickname. “All clear here?”

“Yes,” he says shortly. “Which is something you could’ve asked over the comms.”

“I was in the neighborhood.”

It’s a lie, but a cheerful one, and Damian is sure that if he looked over, Richard would be smiling. But he doesn’t, and Richard pulls Damian closer to his side, chafing at his arm.

“Anyway,” Richard continues. “I was hoping you could run an errand for me.”

Richard is very warm and, like Jason, seems unbothered by the cold. If it weren’t for Brown, he’d think that he’s the only person in the whole damn city who’s affected by the temperature.

“What kind of errand.”

Richard reaches into a pouch on his belt and holds out a flash drive.

“I need to head back to Blüdhaven for a few hours, but I found some useful intel for Batwoman on a pair of gun smugglers she’s been looking into. Could you run this over to her tonight?”

Damian crosses his arms across his chest.

“Why isn’t Oracle doing this?”

There’s a slight tightening in Richard’s jaw, which is all Damian needs to see in order to know that they’ve had a fight, but it’s gone as soon as it appears, and he smiles easily.

“Are you saying you won’t run an errand for your favorite brother?”

Damian doesn’t grace that with an answer, just swipes the flash drive out of Richard’s hand and puts it into one of his own belt pouches.

“Thanks, Damian.”

Richard’s voice is full of genuine warmth, and he rubs Damian’s arm once more before he removes his arm from around Damian’s shoulders and fires a jump line to take him back down to the street. Damian watches him go, refusing to shiver.

 

***

 

It’s laid out in tableau before him. Batwoman—well, like this, she’s Kate, his aunt or at least something close to it—standing by her kitchen table with wig and cowl discarded on the couch behind her. It’s dark in the apartment, but she’s lit with the pale golden flame of a single lit candle, held gently between thumb and forefinger, and she’s looking down at the menorah with its unlit candle in front of her. She cuts a strange figure, standing there in uniform with a sweat spiked crew cut and her heavy black cape sweeping the floor about her feet. She’d taken off her gloves but not her gauntlets, and she’s reciting in Hebrew.

“ _Barukh atah…_ ”

She doesn’t look up until she’s finished, carefully lighting the other candle before placing the first one in the middle holder. It’s hard to tell in the half light, but Damian thinks she looks uncomfortable. It doesn’t show in her voice.

“Did you need something,” she asks, flatly, as she gently lifts the menorah off the table and sets it on the sill of the window over her kitchen sink.

“Um,” Damian says.

She turns back to him, lifts an eyebrow.

“I thought you were supposed to light those at sunset,” he says, train of thought completely derailed.

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he winces. It hardly seems the thing to say, correcting her on rituals he’s never performed himself. To his surprise, though, the corner of her mouth twitches.

“At sunset, I was up in the rafters of a warehouse down by the wharfs waiting for some weapons smugglers to show up. I’m sure he understands.” A faint ironic tilt of her head upwards.

“You’re an atheist,” Damian says, leaving the windowsill where he’d been perched in favor of walking around the table to get a better look at the menorah. There isn’t one in the manor.

Kate shrugs.

“It’s complicated.”

He glances over at her. She has her arms crossed across her chest, and her face is, as usual, inscrutable. So he’s surprised when she continues.

“My mother always used to make sure that we’d celebrate the first night together. Used to make latkes and everything.”

He nods, turns back towards the candles. It’s answer enough, even though he doesn’t really have a frame of reference for it himself. They stand there in silence for a little while, watching the candles burn, until Damian finally shakes himself a little and pulls the flash drive out of the pouch on his belt.

“Intel,” he says, holding it out to her. “From Richard, on your gun smugglers.”

She takes it, and then salutes him slightly with it.

“Thank you.”

He nods and has already turned back to the living room window he had entered through when she speaks again.

“ _Chag Sameach_ , Damian.”

He pauses, and then turns back.

“ _Chag Sameach_ , Kate.”

The words feel strange on his tongue, but his aunt smiles at him, a soft smile that, for once, reaches her eyes.

 

***

 

He takes his time on the way back, and when he finally enters the cave, everyone has already showered and staggered their way upstairs to their warm beds. Even Alfred and his father are gone, and the only person visible is Duke, sitting in the chair in front of the computer. He minimizes what he was looking at when he hears the dull roar of Damian’s cycle, but not before he catches a glimpse of the picture. Two adults, a woman with dark skin and long box braids and a man who is much taller than her, standing next to a child. The woman has her arms wrapped around him, and the man has a hand resting on his head, and the child is clearly Duke. Damian doesn’t mention it.

“Your Dad’s upstairs in the study,” Duke says, spinning the chair around to face Damian as he comes up the stairs from the vehicle garage. “Mr. Pennyworth forced him up ‘cause he thinks he’s coming down with a cold.”

“Unlikely,” Damian says.

“What, does The Batman not get colds?”

That actually hadn’t been what Damian had meant at all, but he doesn’t much want to point out that Alfred had purposefully given Duke his space, so instead he summons up an inner voice that sounds suspiciously like Jason in his head.

“He is the night.”

Duke laughs, a startled sound.

“Man, it really must be Christmas if you’re making jokes. A regular Christmas miracle.”

Damian rolls his eyes and stalks off towards the showers, Duke still laughing behind him. He’s careful not to let the other boy see his smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Notes:
> 
> 1\. Kate Kane is technically Damian’s second cousin (I think?), but she’s still one of the few members of the batfam who’s related to him by blood. That seems like it would be important to him, ergo “aunt.”
> 
> 2\. According the DC REBIRTH CHRISTMAS SPECIAL, Kate’s memories regarding Hanukkah are connected to her father, but when have I ever cared about canon? Never. So according the Chiaroscuro!canon, the most observant Jewish person in Kate’s family was her mom.
> 
> 3\. Damian is a small desert child in a cold, snowy Gotham world. I feel his pain.


	2. Chapter 2

Cassandra is sitting on his bed when Damian opens the door to his bedroom, her legs crossed neatly.

“Hi,” she says quietly.

“Why are you here?” he asks, realizing after the words have already left his mouth how harsh he sounds.

“I can leave,” she says quickly, standing, but he’s already shaking his head and shutting the door behind him.

“No, it’s fine.” He sits down in his desk chair, crosses one leg over the other. After a moment, she sits back down on the bed. “I’m just not sure why you’re _here_.”

This time, she seems to understand.

“Jason… doesn’t like to talk,” she pauses, frowns. “To me, at least. When he’s angry. And Bruce is angry too. And the others—”

She stops talking, waves a hand. He knows what she means regardless. The others have chosen sides, whether they meant to or not. Richard and Drake arguing his father’s side, Brown arguing Jason’s, because apparently they can’t go a single night together without someone prodding at the Red Hood or at the glass case that holds Jason’s old uniform downstairs. It had been the latter tonight.

“I wish he wouldn’t keep it,” Cassandra finally says.

“I made Pennyworth burn mine.”

Cassandra nods.

“And Stephanie…”

“Never had one in the first place,” he finishes, and Cassandra sighs, propping her chin up on her hand.

“Things are so… Complicated.”

“Father makes it complicated,” Damian says, crossing his arms across his chest.

He can see in Cassandra’s eyes that she’s about to ask a question, and, for once, he’s glad. He had caught a glimpse of Jason when the other man had been leaving, and despite the angry set of his jaw, his shoulders had been hunched. Something that had been said over dinner had upset him, although Damian couldn’t guess what exactly it was. But the sight of it had made something twist in his gut, and he wasn’t sure if he should—But then there’s a knock at the door, and Cassandra’s question goes unasked.

“Is this where the collateral damage is gathering?” It’s Duke, leaning in the doorway, looking uncomfortable. “‘Cause that was the most awkward dinner I’ve ever been to.”

Cassandra gives him a little smile, and then pats the bed beside her.

“Yes.”

Duke glances over at Damian, and waits until he gets a slight nod before he enters It’s one of the reasons Damian rather likes Duke: he understands the concept of personal boundaries. Duke seats himself next to Cassandra, and then glances between the two of them.

“So,” he says. “Uh, what the hell just happened.”

Cassandra and Damian sigh in unison, and Damian slips lower in his chair.

“Jason,” she says, and then pauses, looking over at Damian. “Perhaps it’s better if you—?”

She not a particularly good story teller, giving preference to learning fighting words and emotion words. Damian sighs again, feeling as if he’d spent the entire night sighing for one reason or another.

“Todd was the second Robin. He was dead. Then he wasn’t.” Duke’s eyebrows shoot up. “I don’t know why that surprises you. I’ve experienced the same thing.”

Duke leans forward.

“Sorry, you’ve done what?”

“He’s ok now,” Cassandra says, unhelpfully.

“I can see that!”

“Death’s a bit of gray area these days,” Damian says dryly. “Todd came back different. Angrier, I suppose. Then he became the Red Hood.”

“Does this have something to do with the fact that Red Hood, you know, kills people?” Duke asks.

Cassandra nods, but Damian shrugs.

“It’s complicated. And his relationship with Father is, well, fraught.”

Cassandra nods again.

“He doesn’t,” she adds. “Kill, I mean. Anymore. Mostly.”

Duke’s nodding.

“So they’ve got a bad father-son relationship,” he says.

Cassandra says, “Yes,” at the same time Damian says, “Don’t say that around Todd.”

Duke leans back on his hands.

“You know, when Bat—I mean, Bruce offered me the chance to work with him, I didn’t expect quite this much family dysfunction.”

Cassandra pats his knee gently.

“You get used to it,” she says.

Duke laughs at that.

“Ah well,” he says. “I guess this means we’ll be out on the streets earlier, which is fine by me.”

And that, at least, Damian could wholeheartedly agree with.

 

***

 

He had left Duke and Cassandra playing the game they often played over comms, one that Duke called “The Minister’s Cat” and which Cassandra enjoyed because it gave her a chance to practice adjectives, and had made his way downstairs. Most of the ground floor is quiet, but as he walks towards the back of the house, he can hear the low murmur of voices coming form the kitchen. He pushes open the door, and finds Richard and Pennyworth cleaning, the former stacking dishes while the latter boxes up leftover food.

“—Feels a little like a lost cause, though,” Richard is saying, setting a tall stack of plates on the counter.

“What is,” Damian asks.

Neither of them jumps, but Richard’s eyebrows shoot up for a moment before he relaxes and gives Damian a tired looking smile.

“We were just talking about dinner,” he says. “Anyway, Alf, if it makes you feel any better, I think the only reason Jason came at all was because you asked him.”

“I’m not particularly concerned with my own feelings in this instance, Master Dick,” Pennyworth says. And then, relenting slightly, “But if it is enough to ensure that the boy eats at least one decent meal a year, than so be it.”

Richard barks a laugh at that.

“Yeah, I think Jason lives mostly off TV dinners and, like, cheetos at this point.”

Which isn’t true, at least as far as Damian is aware. Whenever he finds himself at one of Jason’s safe houses during the day, the man is invariably cooking. Damian had looked in the freezer once and found two bottles of vodka, a box of emergency candles, and ten neatly labeled bags of frozen soup. But this doesn’t seem like something Jason would necessarily admit to the other men in the room, so Damian keeps it to himself. Besides, Pennyworth is speaking again.

“I do wish he had waited long enough for me to box up some leftovers for him.”

Richard shrugs.

“I dunno about you, but I don’t think I want to risk trying to talk to him right now.”

Pennyworth frowns, but doesn’t argue.

“Anyway,” Richard continues, coming around the counter put a hand on Damian’s shoulder and steer him out of the room. “It’s about time for us to think about getting out on the streets.”

Pennyworth nods.

“Best of luck,” he says quietly as they leave the room.

Richard doesn’t speak again until they enter the study, when he asks, “You alright, Damian?”

The room is empty, meaning that his father is either already in the cave or, perhaps even already out on the Gotham streets. Damian reaches up to trigger the door leading to the cave.

“Why wouldn’t I be,” he says evenly, wrapping an arm around one of the fireman’s poles in front of him and sliding down before Richard can reply.

That doesn’t, however, stop him from pursuing the subject once both of their feet are back on solid ground.

“I don’t know, that’s why I was asking,” Richard says, keeping step with Damian as they walked down the steps into the cave proper. “You were… quiet at dinner.”

What Richard means, of course, is at the tail end of dinner when everyone was yelling. He hadn’t taken his father’s side because he disagreed with him. He hadn’t taken Todd’s side because he hadn’t wanted to quarrel with his father. But they are at the bottom of the steps now, close enough that Damian can see his father sitting at the computer, and so he says none of that and walks towards the locker room instead. Richard is at his heels, but he doesn’t speak. Ultimately, it’s Damian who breaks the silence, pausing in the middle of pulling his uniform out of his locker.

“I didn’t want to fight with Father,” he finally says. “But I’m not sure I made the right choice.”

Richard finishes pulling his shirt off over his head, and then considers Damian for a moment, absentmindedly tossing the shirt into a crumpled pile at the bottom of his locker. Damian can read his brother well enough to recognize that Richard is resisting the urge to take the same side and make the same arguments he had earlier. Then he sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

“If you feel like that, then you should go talk to Jason.”

Damian raises an eyebrow at that, and Richard sighs, sitting down on the bench that runs between the two banks of lockers.

“Dami, we obviously don’t agree, and I don’t want to fight with you. But if you feel like you should’ve,” he pauses, sighs again. “That you should’ve taken Jason’s side, then you should go talk to him. At the end of the day, him knowing that you’re on his side is important.”

Damian weighs that, and then, after a moment, sit down on the bench beside Richard.

“You don’t agree with me.”

It’s a statement, not a question, and Richard smiles.

“We don’t agree on a lot of things, Damian. But you’re still my little brother.”

At that, he reaches over and ruffles Damian’s hair. The sentiment is nice enough that Damian doesn’t swat him away.

 

***

 

They’re out on the streets much more quickly than Damian had expected, due to an attack downtown. Gotham’s contingent of costumed villains is usually very good at thematizing their attacks with the holiday at hand, but not today. Today it was Joker Gas at the Wayne Tower ice skating rink, and Damian was facing off against one of the Joker’s oversized goons.

“This,” he hisses between clenched teeth as he fires a grappling hook up into a tree, tugs when it catches, and then uses it to add to his momentum as he lands a heavy kick to the goon’s jaw. “Is ridiculous.”

The goon is barely fazed, which only adds to Damian’s desperation for the growth spurt he’s due for, but suddenly the goon goes down to a heavy hit to his kneecaps with a mallet. Damian turns and finds Harley Quinn standing next to him, dressed as festively as she knows how. He isn’t exactly sure how to categorize her outfit, aside from “red and green” and “completely unsuited for the weather.” She twirls the mallet once around in her hand, hammers the goon’s head into the ground, and then balances it across her shoulders.

“Merry Christmas,” she says, grinning broadly.

Damian crosses his arms.

“I was under the impression that you’re Jewish.”

She shrugs, grin still as broad as it had been before.

“Yeah, but when ya think festive ya think red ‘nd green, right? I’m jus’ playin’ along.”

The goon stirs again, and she hammers him down again without even looking. Damian raises an eyebrow, which probably only encourages her.

“Anyway,” she says, coming alongside him and slinging an arm around his shoulders, dragging him close to her side. “Before ya ask, I’m jus’ here to put Mistah Jay back in Arkham, alright? Then I’ll be gone. I’m sure Bats’ll be fine with it.”

Damian is less sure, but unwilling to argue the point. He does, however, immediately shake off her arm and turn his attention to the goon, ziptying his wrists and ankles. He’s purposefully turned his back on her, and when he turns back she is, thankfully, gone. His father probably wouldn’t like that, but it had seemed… unsportsmanlike to cuff her after she had helped subdue the goon. Even though, of course, he had had the situation handled. Brown appears beside him a moment later.

“Was that Harley Quinn?”

Damian sighs.

“Fucking Christmas,” she says, and Damian snorts quietly.

“Fucking Christmas,” he echoes.

 

***

 

After the commotion at Wayne Tower, the rest of the evening runs fairly quietly, quietly enough that Damian begs off the last two hours of patrol in favor of returning to the manor, making a quick visit to the kitchen, and then sneaking a cycle out of the cave’s garage. It takes him another forty-five minutes to reach crime alley, but by the time he arrives, there’s a light on in the window of Jason’s safe house. For once, he takes the stairs rather than the fire escape and knocks on Jason’s front door. The dog immediately goes wild on the other side, big booming barks echoing over Jason’s irritated demands that the dog be quiet, and then the door opens, revealing Jason holding the dog back by its collar, a fresh bruise darkening one eye.

“Damian,” his voice is shocked. “What the hell are you doing here.”

Damian holds out the tupperware full of leftovers he had taken from the manor, and then pushes past Jason into the apartment. The dog immediately leaves off trying to leap through the door in favor of following after Damian, gamboling about his legs and letting out little huffy woofs of excitement. Jason is considering the box of food with a critical eye.

“From Alfred?” he asks.

Damian pauses in trying to calm the dog down, looking up at Todd.

“And me,” he says, before he’s distracted by the dog suddenly popping up on its back legs and licking his face.

“Down,” he says sternly.

“Corndog,” Jason says at the same time, exasperation coloring his tone.

Damian looks over at him, raises an eyebrow.

“Corndog? I thought you were waiting to name her until you thought of a _good_ name.”

Jason sighs, turning back towards the kitchen to shove the tupperware into the fridge.

“I _was_. There’s this pair of kids living downstairs who really took a liking to her, and they started calling her Corndog and it just… stuck.”

Corndog sits down with a thud, looking up at the both of them with a thoroughly innocent expression on her face, and Damian chuckles despite himself. He leans down, ruffles her ears, and when he looks up, Jason is leaning against the kitchen counter, smiling.

“Anyway,” he says. “What’re you doing down here in your civvies, kid.”

Damian breaks eye contact, and then kneels next to Corndog in order to pet her more efficiently. The dog, in turn, gives him a polite kind of lick on the cheek, which he appreciates. It had taken him almost an hour to drive here, and yet he still isn’t entirely sure what he is going to say.

“I wanted to apologize,” he says finally, refusing to look up at Jason. “Father has no right to keep your old uniform hung up in the cave against your wishes, and I should have said as much this evening.”

There’s a silence, and, at the tail end of it, he risks glancing up. Jason has his arms crossed loosely across his chest, and the only expression on his face is surprise. And then it’s gone, and he’s smiling wryly at Damian.

“Don’t worry about it, kid,” he says. “I don’t want Bruce yelling at you on my behalf anyway.”

 _That isn’t the point_ , Damian wants to say, but doesn’t. Jason slaps a hand on his shoulder as he passes Damian on his way to the bedroom. It’s a friendly gesture.

“Anyway, I’m gonna go crash,” he says. “You’re welcome to the couch if you want to stay.”

“I should be getting back. Thank you,” he adds.

Jason nods.

“Good night, then.”

“Good night,” Damian says, and lets himself out after giving Corndog one last pat.

 

*******

 

He doesn’t return to the manor immediately, however. Instead he rides through Gotham, enjoying the two AM silence, and, somehow, he finds himself back near his aunt’s apartment, but the windows are all dark. There’s a park across the street, the kind that the city council frequently creates in order to hide ugly empty lots. This one is full of oak trees, still relatively young and small, and a bench under a cast iron streetlight, which Damian sits on. Chances are that his aunt was either still out on the streets, dressed in red and black, or that she had already gone to sleep. At least, that’s what he thinks until he hears steps on the sidewalk, looks up, and sees Kate Kane stopped at the entrance of the park, looking at him. She’s dressed in black, a long overcoat cinched around her waist and a white scarf knotted about her neck. The contrasts between white and red and black make her look almost inhumanly pale.

“What’re you doing out here,” she asks.

Her voice is quiet, but in the silence of the very early morning, he can hear it clearly. Regardless, he doesn’t have an answer.

Perhaps sensing this, she shrugs and then says, “Well, you might as well come upstairs. You look frigid.”

He is. Even with his gloved hand shoved in his pockets, his fingers are stiff, and he’d stopped being able to feel his face about half an hour ago. He nods, following her up the four flights of stairs to her door. Once inside, she sets down the plastic bag he hadn’t noticed she’d been carrying on her kitchen table and then stepped over to the thermostat, cranking up the heat.

“There’s a vent there,” she says with a faint smile, pointing to a spot just in front of the sink.

The air comes on with a dull roar, and he steps underneath it. It’s blessedly warm, and a shiver that he can’t control shakes through him. His aunt, meanwhile, has shed her coat and scarf and is rummaging through her cabinets.

“Hot chocolate or—” she pauses, shoving a few more things aside in the cabinet. “Actually, all I have is hot chocolate.” And then, mostly to herself. “Need to add tea to that grocery list.”

Damian watches her step over to the refrigerator and write “Tea bags” at the bottom of a very long list held to the fridge with a magnet. Then she opens it, grabs a half gallon of milk, and slops some into a sauce pan on the stove, turning the heat underneath it to low.

“I heard that this evening was a mess,” she says almost conversationally as she returns to the kitchen table and pulls a box of hanukkah candles out of the bag, along with a small carton of sour cream and a jar of applesauce. And then, catching Damian’s raised eyebrow, adds, “Ran into Batgirl this evening.”

Damian nods, and then says, “Yes.”

She glances over at him, and he’s sure that his expression is as unreadable to her as hers is to him. But then something in her look softens, and she sighs.

“Holidays are a bad time to be around family,” she says. “It’s not supposed to be that way, but that’s generally how it turns out. In the Wayne and Kane families, at least.”

She leans down, pulls a small knife out of her boot, and uses it to slice through the tape holding the candle box closed. Then she pulls out three candles and pushes them into the menorah in front of her. One in the center, two to the far right. There’s a matchbook lying on the table, and she picks up, striking one of the matches and lighting the center candle. And then, in the middle of pulling the middle candle from the menorah, she stops and turns to Damian.

“Do you,” she pauses. “Do you want to light them?”

Damian, who had just been beginning to relax and feel warm again, froze.

“I don’t—” he starts, and then stops.

There’s a lot of ways to finish the sentence. He doesn’t know how, doesn’t know if he’s allowed, doesn’t know if he wants to. Well, perhaps he does know the answer to the last one, and besides, his aunt is already waving a hand.

“Don’t worry about the prayer, I can recite it.”

She holds the middle candle out to him and, after a moment, he takes it.

“It’s called the _shamash_ ,” she says. “This middle candle.”

And then, clearly as discomfited as he is, she begins to recite. Damian had never learned any Hebrew, but he listens to the rise and fall of his aunt’s voice and watches the wavering candle flame. And then, when she finishes, she gestures towards the menorah.

“Left one first.”

And so he does, carefully holding the _shamash_ first to the leftmost candle until it flares into its own bright flame and then to the second in line before he places it back in the middle.

“ _Chag Sameach_ ,” he says when he’s done, not quite meeting her eyes.

“ _Chag Sameach_ ,” she replies. Then she adds, “I have a bunch of leftover latkes from an overly friendly grandmother-type down the hall. Would you like some?”

He glances over at the candles, gleaming in the darkness of the apartment, and then nods. She smiles, as full and bright in its own quiet way as the candles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Notes:
> 
> 1\. Rules for “The Minister’s Cat” are [here](https://www.originsonline.org/educator-help/ministers-cat), if you’ve never played it.
> 
> 2\. Somehow, despite the fact that I've written 8K for this 'verse, I've never actually written anything involving Bruce. I should... fix that.
> 
> 3\. Has Harley Quinn being jewish been retconned out of existence? Probably. Am I going to let that stop me? Absolutely not. All your faves are jewish now. Sorry, I don’t make the rules. ([Comic panel reference here.](http://docgold13.tumblr.com/post/154982585391/after-seeing-harley-in-a-thousand-christmas))
> 
> 4\. Is Damian Jewish in this ‘verse? That’s… a fraught question. Both Kate Kane (obviously) and Bruce are Jewish in this ‘verse, in that both their parents were Jewish. Neither of them is religious.  
> As for Damian, I don’t think he would ever be actively religious, but I do think that he would be curious about his Jewish heritage, if for no other reason than that it’s so different from his other “inheritances,” as it were. Being Jewish is a lot different from being, say, the heir to Ra’s al Ghul or Batman.  
> This is basically a long winded way of saying that 1) It depends on what you mean by “Jewish” and 2) I haven’t figured it out yet. (Plus I’m trying not to project my own complicated relationship with my Jewish heritage onto Damian, a goal in which I think I've only partially succeeded.)


End file.
